A So Called Apprentice
by TeriGrander
Summary: A story of a so-called apprentice of Darth Vader, who could actually heal him... but wasn't allowed to do so.
1. No regrets

_Disclamer: I don't own any of Star Wars characters, places or anything. All that belongs to George Lukas, and I'm only playing with his toys for my own joy and nothing else._

* * *

**  
No regrets **

The hissing of the respirator. Constant accompaniment to my life for the last fifteen years. The hissing of Lord Vader's respirator. Although it's been several months already as this respirator forces air only into the mask. But it is know only to me, Lord Vader and, maybe, the Emperor.

And the clicking of heels. Dark Lord's heavy steps - and the clicking of my ironed heels in unison.

And the unseeing glances, sliding past me. But I don't care for them. The only thing that my attention is concentrated on is Milord's breathing. For several months now his lungs work almost well. With wheezes and - less and less often - fails, but they work. And when they fail, I step in place of the breathing apparatus, Forcing the air into the tired lungs. Making them work while Lord Vader can't do a thing.

Yes, I am Force user. Officially - Lord Vader's apprentice, unofficially... I don't know how to call it. A phrase of some royal guard comes to mind, to whom I once told my story while waiting in some corridor. ⌠It looks a lot like slavery to me!" he exclaimed then. Maybe.

Maybe, it is slavery. But that is not something Milord should know. It's enough that I can't move away from him for more than several meters, that I have no energy for anything else except constant observation of his breathing.

It's enough that if I had a chance to replay the events from fifteen years ago, I would change nothing. Even knowing what it would lead to. Even knowing that upon waking up - too soon for someone surviving an explosion like that - I would hear a voice distorted with breathing mask, the voice which is now used to frighten naughty children. And that I would know that my life cost Coruscant in a dozen bandits - and my freedom.

And after that, kneeling in front of the Emperor's throne (for nobody gave me permission to rise) I would hear this same voice saying "It is a chance, Master". The phrase, that defined my destiny.

But it was defined that very moment when the explosion near the Palace threw me onto the nearby wall and I instinctively caught at the nearest bright life, trying to save mine. That very moment, when my undeveloped abilities tied me to the second man in the Empire so tightly, that being notnear him became painful. That very moment when I wok up and heard the voice, distorted by breathing mask.

Long before the Emperor agreed to let me live. Long before I was officially called Lord Vader's apprentice.

Fifteen years passed since then. I was trained in the ways of the Force as much as it was possible with our talents so different. I got used to follow Lord Vader everywhere. To unseeing glances. To the hissing of the respirator. To having no energy for anything else.

And there is no regrets.


	2. The break up

**The break up **

_Two years later _

Long nails scratch the skin. Again and again, leaving neat red streaks from wrist to elbow. Long, sharp nails. Unable to tear the skin. But even this feeling distracts me. Not for long, but it distracts me from the tinnitus, from the strings that are being torn apart in my head.

I look at my hands again. I have beautiful hands, everyone notices it. Even Milord said once that my hands are too beautiful for the healer. Milord...

Several new streaks on my forearms, several seconds of relative tranquility. Lord Vader could do without me. Droids would again plug in the breathing apparatus, everything would be the same... And I would just die. As I should do seventeen years ago in the explosion on Coruscant.

Hatred leads to the Dark side, is that what the Emperor said? Then count me among those who turned, Milord, because I hate you. For being a Force user, for being on Coruscant on that day, for being brighter than the others when I was desperately searching for an anchor for my broken life. For not leaving me then, for making me used to living tied to you. For not experiencing any of this now. For leaving now. For being you, Darth Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith, the second man in the Empire.

Scratching my hands doesn't help anymore. I feel as strings of our bond tear off somewhere deep inside. Trying to remain at some verge of consciousness, I bite my hand fiercely, surprised by the taste of blood. It makes me sober for a second, but then the pain comes again and I my consciousness finally gives up.

_  
a year before _

_Trance. Familiar, used rhythm. Breathing and pulse almost unnoticeable. Consciousness carefully divided into two parts, one keeping on observing Lord Vader's breathing, while the other dreams, letting the body rest. _

_But dreams don't turn out well tonight. With eerie constancy I see the same picture. The picture of me, rolling on the floor of some sell, cut in the rock, holding my head and howling in pain. This pain breaks my trance. Again and again. Only a habit to watch Milord's breathing doesn't let me to skip another fail in the work of his lungs. Actions, trained to full automatism, and concentration on the Force wipes out the memory of the dream._

_  
_And now the dreams come true, I think, realizing a sudden respite. The pain is still there, though it's duller now, a wistful emptiness inside, exhausting me little by little. And no healer's attainments would help me now, I suddenly sure of this. Only if I again catch at someone's bright life, replacing Lord Vader. But despite my own words about hatred, I don't want to do it.

The events of the last seventeen years come to my mind one by one. Explosion. Waking up. Vader's voice. Official announcement of my apprenticeship. Training. Constant incomprehensible pain when Lord Vader leaves. Constant following him to get rid of pain. Disconnection of the breathing apparatus. Talk to the royal guard one night.

For some strange reasons I remember only the last seventeen years. As if there was nothing before the explosion. As if I'm eighteen or nineteen, and not twenty seven. Who were my parents? What were they like? What my home was like? I don't remember. I remember only the explosion, insuppressible desire to live and convulsive tries to catch at something, anything. And the last seventeen years, when my home was where Lord Vader was.

I hate you, Milord. For that I can't replace you even to save my life.

_  
Coruscant, the Emperor's palace, Throne room. _

_A hooded figure in the shadows on the throne, two figures in red by its sides. Two more figures in red be the sides of the entrance. And a kneeled figure in black in front of the throne. _

_"Your so called apprentice is dead". _

_"I have felt it, Master". _

_"Do you have a desire to take someone else as apprentice?" _

_"No, Master". _

_  
While on the far away planet forgotten even by the Force, in a cave the exit from which was blocked by a jammed door, a healer was dying. A girl, who in just a little more time could fully heal Darth Vader. _


End file.
